Only Sweet Things Turn To Dust
by miss izzy92
Summary: AU. We truly were a lost generation. Kurt Hummel and Dave Karofsky, from 1918 to 1942.
1. Chapter 1

Desclaimer: Glee and anything else you may recognize belong to their rightful owners. Title is based on a F. Scott Fitzgerald quote

New Jersey, 1918

Kurt Hummel made the acquaintance of one David Karofsky during his second year of college. The burlier man was introduced to him through his step-brother Finn, as a fellow veteran, recently returned from France. Kurt nodded and hummed appreciatively in all the rights places as Finn babbled and Mr. Karofsky stared stubbornly at his shined boots.

Kurt gazed unseeingly at the champagne coupe in his hand, before looking up to see Mr. Karofsky staring at him with intense eyes. He looked down quickly and Kurt raised an eyebrow. Finn carried on. Kurt looked around at the room before catching a glimpse of a stylish dark blue evening gown and blond hair. Quickly excusing himself, and switching his empty glass with a full one from the waiter's tray without missing a beat, he drew up behind the young woman.

"Have I told you that you look positively ravishing this evening, Miss Fabray?" He whispered in her ear whilst taking a sip of champagne. She threw her head back and laughed, turning around to face him.

"What do you want, Kurt?" She asked sweetly.

"Interesting company and riveting conversation, what else can a man possibly desire?" He replied.

"I can think of a few things." Quinn drawled.

"Hush you." She responded with her characteristic breathy laugh before pulling him closer the share the evening's gossip.

Kurt Hummel wasn't born wealthy like most of his classmates. His father bred cattle in Ohio and it was a comfortable living but one that demanded hard work and didn't allow too many luxuries. His mother had passed away when he was eight, leaving him to take care of the house along with an old housekeeper, Mrs. Bletheim, a bitter creature completely disinterested in any form of art.

He excelled in his studies and the money his father had carefully saved up throughout his life was used to send him off to Princeton, filling the newly-married Burt Hummel with pride.

Things like the butterflies in his stomach when he caught sight of his son-to-be stepbrother were carefully ignored, stomped on, pushed to a dark corner of his mind and soon disappeared completely.

In Princeton, Kurt perfected his defense mechanism. Instead of subservience towards the peers that considered themselves his superiors, he responded to their digs with a steely gaze, an arrogant sneer and a remark that left the others feeling distinctively inadequate.

He studied, wrote like man possessed and allowed himself few distractions. One of them was Quinn Fabray, the beautiful blonde from Boston, studying in the conservatory against the wishes of her parents. The other was Blaine Anderson.

Unlike him, Blaine Anderson had been born to money and high society, and all that it entailed. None of the classmates looked down on him because he was meant to be there. At first, he had nothing but Kurt's disdain and disinterest, but the obliviousness and good intentions eventually win him over.

He was like him. He never realized there were others like him. Blaine had. He told him of a boy named Jeremiah, with clear eyes and blond hair and who kissed him when they were young, before going to war and dying there.

Blaine Anderson was deeply unhappy, he realized one day. He wanted to be free, wanted it desperately, but he was too scared to do anything about it. He was too scared to losing people's approval, whether it be his family or the people on the street. Kurt pitied him. He'd given up on caring what people thought a long time.

Of course, they ended up in each other's rooms, more often than not, drunk and desperate.

"Hey, can we talk?" Blaine asked from his place, lying on Kurt's bed.

"You're not going to ask me to make an honest woman out of you, are you?" He asked, being careful not to nick the skin with the blade.

"We have to end this." Blaine took a deep breath and avoided Kurt's eyes, who had turned back to look at him. "I met someone."

"Alright." Kurt nodded and went back to shaving, even if the grip on the blade was tighter than before.

"Alright? You're not upset?" Blaine asked carefully as he quickly dressed himself.

"Why would I be?" He asked back without looking at him.

Blaine shrugged on the waistcoat and grabbed his jacket. Walking closer to Kurt, he placed a hand on his shoulder and turned him to face him. Kurt rolled his eyes.

"You know, you're going to get shaving cream all-" Blaine cuts him off with a kiss.

"Goodbye." Blaine hesitated for a few seconds before walking out of the room and closing the door behind him.

Kurt nicked the skin.

"Damn."

When Lucy Quinn Fabray was sixteen, she got pregnant. Her parents were shocked and appalled. In their words, they had raised her better than that.

Her mother comes to her bedroom one night and talks in riddles about how she may know someone who could make the whole thing go away. Lucy wouldn't let them. They sent her into the country, under the excuse that she was feeling sick, and really, this Boston air was doing nothing to help her.

Five months into the pregnancy, she started wishing she'd taken her mother's offer. She began hating that baby inside of her. Without it, she could have remained the beautiful fool she had been born to be. She would never have to deal with back pains and swollen ankles and the crippling knowledge that has much as her parents loved her, they loved their reputation more.

Nine months in, she regretted every hateful thought she had had towards her baby.

One week after the birth, they took her daughter away and she never saw her again.

Two years later, she called herself Quinn, left home and never looked back.

"Miss Fabray?" The young woman sitting on the lumpy bed looked up at the guard. "You're free to go."

Quinn Fabray stood up, adjusted her coat and hat, and walked down the corridor. She was almost positive the guard was looking at her backside and fought the urge to turn back and give him a piece of her mind.

Once outside the police station, she took a deep breath and stretched her arms.

"So, how does it feel, being arrested for the first time?" Kurt asked from where he was leaning against the wall.

"My back hurts and I'm pretty sure they put something in my food." Quinn replied and pointed at his cigarette. "Can I have one of those?"

He reached in his pocket and pulled out the case his father had given him when he left home, and handed it to her.

"Thanks." She replied, voice muffled as she lit it. "How did you manage to get me released?"

"One of my classmates' dad is a State Attorney and I know a few things the old man wouldn't be happy about." He said as she took his arm and they walked down the street. "Just don't be surprised if rumors start going around about you being Sebastian Smythe's secret lover." He stopped when she gave a short laugh and looked at the purple bruise on her cheek. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." She smiled at him.

"I should go with you next time." Kurt said after a small pause. "I'll even wear a dress." They both laugh loudly and the man unloading groceries in front of them gave them a dirty look.

"I'm actually thinking of cutting my hair. What do you think?"

"You'll look lovely either way."

One week later and Quinn was back at work, extracting from him a promise to be at her play's opening night.

As he walked towards the theatre, he could feel eyes on him and he didn't think it was because of his jacket. He walked a bit further before ducking into an alleyway.

"You?" The man who was following was his stepbrother's friend from the war. "What? Did my brother put you up to this?"

"No! I just…" Dave, if he remembered correctly, seemed to be struggling for words. "I'm sorry. I'll just go." He didn't move an inch. The look on his face was desperate, wanting.

"Well, who'd have known…?" Kurt muttered. Dave looked up slowly at him, before lunging forward, capturing his lips in a bruising kiss. Kurt responded eagerly before they drew apart. They stood like that for a few seconds, with Kurt's arms still wrapped around Dave's shoulders. The sound of laughter in the street broke the spell and a panicked Dave left before Kurt could say anything.

"Hey, what happened to that friend of yours?"

"Who? Dave?"

"Yeah."

"He left. Said there was a family emergency. Why?"

"No reason."

New York City, 1921

Kurt tried to keep his nerves from showing. He's sitting in an uncomfortable chair in a small office. The blinds produced stripes of yellow-ish light on the far wall. A shuffle of papers caught his attention and the man at the desk removed his reading glasses. Kurt straightened in his chair, pulling at the cufflinks.

"Well, I read your book…" He paused dramatically, glancing quickly at Kurt. "And it's great. I'd like to publish it."

William Shuester cracked a smile at the young writer and Kurt let his composure slip and smiled back.

"Thank you." Mr. Shuester nodded and grabbed one of the several papers cluttering his desk.

"We'll see about the specifics later. Is Tuesday at ten good for you?"

"Yes, that's good. I'm free then." Kurt nodded enthusiastically.

"Well, I'll see then." The curly haired man reached forward to shake his hand as Kurt stood up. With one last assurance that, of course, he would be there, and a tip of the hat to Mr. Shuester's redheaded secretary, he left the office.

Once outside the building, he took a deep breath before taking a step forward and losing himself in the crowd.

_I need a drink._

The good thing about theatre types was the never ending supply of alcohol. Especially if one was a part of that group.

The previous year, Kurt, along with Artie Abrams, a cripple from the war, wrote and directed a play that was a small success. Not too big. Just big enough for their names to be heard in the right circles.

Artie Abrams owned a small apartment in Queens that felt even smaller because of the crowd of close friends that was permanently present. As is the case with those types of friends, they visited once or twice, got properly tipsy and then were never seen again.

Kurt walked up the stairs bypassing several couples before opening the door to the apartment. As usual, several people were sprawled around the living room, with Marion Harris' voice coming from the Edison record player and a cloud of cigarette smoke enveloping everything.

_A good man is hard to find,_

_You always get the other kind_

With practiced ease, he crossed the room without stumbling on any over-excited country girls wearing to much make up and made his way into the small balcony where he found Artie Abrams, his mistress, Tina Cohen-Chang, and the best liquor.

_Then you rave, you even crave,_

_To see him lying in his grave_

"Kurt!" Tina smiled widely at seeing him and he bent down to kiss her cheek, careful to avoid her bakelite cigarette holder. "You seemed pleased. What happened?"

Kurt sits down on the wicker chair next to Artie, who was pouring himself a drink. Taking a deep breath, he spread his arms dramatically.

"They're going to publish my book!" Cheers came from the two occupants of the balcony. Artie reached for a glass and the pitcher.

"This deserves a drink." Artie proclaimed solemnly as he poured Kurt a glass, making Tina giggle.

By the time he left Artie's he was already quite buzzed. He tried to appear as sober as he possibly could before making his way outside, lest he run into the only honest Prohibition agent in New York.

Besides, he had heard wonderful things about the Pearl and it was as good as any time to see if it deserved the fuss it had garnered.


	2. Chapter 2

The Pearl was like any other bar, with the small detail of several men dancing together. A vamp with bobbed black hair and artfully applied make up stood on the stage, singing with a raspy voice.

Kurt bypassed the couples and made his way to the bar, ordering a bourbon as he sat at the stool next to a burly man. A movement out of the corner of his eye made him turn and look at the man with more attention.

"You." He whispered. The man looked up with a raised eyebrow. The eyebrows, the strong jaw, the slightly crooked nose. It was him, alright. "Well, it's a small world."

"Excuse me?" He looked at him carefully as the barman deposited the bourbon in front of Kurt.

"I never forget a kiss." Kurt smiled at him and held out his hand. "Princeton, about three years ago." Dave Karofsky shook his head, before taking his hand.

"Yeah, I remember. Sorry, I was just…" He waved a hand absently and Kurt laughed.

"It's ok."

* * *

><p>The woman on stage came over several times through the night. During first time, she introduced herself as Santana Lopez, and the in the following ones, just took a shot of courage and traded barbs with David.<p>

By the time they left The Pearl and it's patrons behind, they were spectacularly drunk on cheap gin. The caught a lift from a man that spent most of the night with his tongue down a Sophie Tucker look-alike with an Adam's apple. The man, who they didn't catch the name of, dropped them off a few blocks from Kurt's apartment and he and David stumbled the rest of the way.

David spent the night and when Kurt woke up the following day with a headache, he was still there. He smiled before burrowing his head in the crook of the taller man's neck.

* * *

><p>Dave stayed for a week, a month, a year, two years.<p>

During the day, Kurt wrote and at night Dave went out and came back at dawn. Kurt knew the smell left behind by a gunshot but he didn't say anything when he recognized it on Dave's sleeves.

It wasn't perfect, not by a long shot. Sometimes they exploded at each other, an argument caused by something truly stupid and insignificant. Kurt called him a mindless thug and Dave screamed that he was a spoiled little boy.

One of them left and slammed the door behind him. He came back the following morning, smelling like alcohol and smoke and grabbed the one that had stayed to drown his sorrows at home like he never wanted to let go.

* * *

><p>Dave didn't speak about the war. The war was pain, and hopelessness and cold.<p>

There was none of the honor the older men talked about, dying was painful and that was that. Dying in the war meant being shot, blown to pieces or being poisoned by the gas. If it didn't kill the men instantly, the poor bastards could spend days in no man's land, tangled in the wires as it cut into their skin, bleeding, pissing and shiting themselves, calling out for their mothers and their fathers and God. No one ever came.

"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori." He whispered like a mantra as he slammed the glass on the counter.

By the time death arrived, all they did was wonder why it didn't come sooner.

The only thing Dave said was that he met a woman in France who spoke seven languages.

* * *

><p>One day, after a series of visits to the veteran's hospital and their embarrassing questions, the screaming and the anger became too much and Dave left for good. He was tired.<p>

Kurt threw five plates at the front door.

* * *

><p>He packed the things he could carry with him, put the rest in storage and handed Miss Beiste the key to the apartment.<p>

* * *

><p>Paris, 1923<p>

Paris was everything he could ever hope for and more. The thought came to him as he giggled into Mercedes Jones' lap. His mind felt hazy and warm, the alcohol still swimming around his mouth.

Mercedes Jones was one of the loveliest women he ever met. She was warm, caring, formidable and he feels like a child hiding behind her skirts. Her fingers run through his slicked hair and distantly he hears Mike Chang laugh.

"The Americans in Paris are all mad." she said on the day they met.

"Even you?" He asked, taking a sip of champagne.

"Even me. I'd rather be mad than be a prisoner, though. There's no freedom for black folks in America." She gave him a sad smile.

* * *

><p>He'd been in Paris for three months when they crossed paths for the third time. He looked the same as the chatty girl in front of them introduced them.<p>

Dave spent the night with him.

* * *

><p>It's different than the first time.<p>

Some things are the same. They still hop from party to party, Kurt more so than Dave and drink far too much.

But Paris was Wonderland and they ran around like children.

* * *

><p>The rock whizzed out of his hand, as he let out a laugh. At his side, Dave shook his head and smiled.<p>

The sound of glass breaking reached them and Dave quickly grabbed his hand, pulling him along. The soles of their shoes slapped across the ground as they ran down the street, the sound pounding in their ears.

Once they'd reached the second street corner, Kurt decided they had run enough. He pulled a panting Dave against him and pressed their lips together.

* * *

><p>"Why did you come to Paris?" Kurt asked him in a whisper, his voice half-drowned by the pillow.<p>

The hand tracing circles on the small of his back stilled.

"I needed to get away for a while."

"Why Paris?"

"Well, I didn't really get a chance to be a tourist last time I was here."

* * *

><p>They called them Rimbaud and Verlaine when they thought they couldn't hear them.<p>

It was a bad sign.

Fortunately, when Dave left again Kurt didn't stab him in the hand.

* * *

><p>St. Louis, 1926<p>

In June, Kurt Hummel married Brittany S. Pierce, in a quiet ceremony. The bride is tall, blonde and during the reception dances on the tables with the dress pulled up to her thighs and drinks far too much. She's a raging success.

* * *

><p>The attraction of Brittany doesn't lie in any physical attribute, to which Kurt is completely immune. His fondness for her arises from the unbearable resemblance she has to his mother. It doesn't show through the picture of a seated young woman that he carries religiously in his luggage where ever he goes, but Elizabeth Hummel was a hurricane.<p>

There was rhythm in every step she took, with an incomparable good humor, often grabbing an infant Kurt and swinging him around. Brittany had that same rhythm, music pulsing through her limbs. Kurt Hummel married a woman he didn't want and who didn't want him back but neither minded very much. It was always better than being alone.

It worked. Kurt didn't mind the cocaine and Brittany didn't mind the men.

* * *

><p>Brittany Susan Pierce was twelve when a friend of her brother sneaked into her room and told her not to make a sound. When she was fourteen, she heard the other people say she's simple, the poor girl.<p>

When she was fifteen, she fell in love with a girl and left her home and Arizona behind.

She was a dancer when she met Kurt Hummel. He had soft hands, a kind smile and wild eyes and she was smitten.

* * *

><p>Kurt went back to New York and took Brittany with him. She danced in their small rented, apartment like she was the main attraction of a music hall. It was too small to contain either of them.<p>

He took her to every party, every speakeasy. The wide-eyed blonde who didn't make sense. Finally, he took her to the Pearl.

* * *

><p>She fell in love with the singer. What an extraordinary match, a singer and a dancer.<p>

That was what he told himself as he helped her pack her bags.

That night he wasn't able to sleep. He sat on the edge of the bed, with his head in his hands. He wondered why they all left.

* * *

><p>Atlantic City, 1928<p>

William Shuester called him to inform him he had received his last manuscript and gushed about how it was his best yet.

Kurt told him to wire him the damn money.

* * *

><p>There are millions of people in the world and for some reason Kurt Hummel and Dave Karofsky always cross paths. That time it was across a packed ballroom. Kurt was standing alone and Dave had apparently been in conversation with Noah Puckerman, as anyone in Atlantic City for over a week quickly found out, and a blond man with disproportionate lips.<p>

It wasn't really surprising when Dave went with him for the night.

* * *

><p>They tried to make it work that time, which was more than could be said about the past. Dave even got them a house, a place away from the bustle of the city, where Kurt could write in peace and where Dave didn't felt the urge to grab his gun every time he heard a loud noise.<p>

One time, he almost choked Kurt in his sleep. When he realized what his hands were urging him to do, he laid back, panting, drops of sweat rolling down his forehead. He screamed into the pillow. Kurt looked at him and didn't say a word.

He reached out and took the pillow from his clenched hands and pulled Dave to him like he was a scared child. He waited until Dave's breathing slowed.

Neither one slept that night.

* * *

><p>Sam Evans was sweet. That was the only word Kurt, with his extensive vocabulary, could find to describe him.<p>

He always smiled when he sees him, took his hat off before walking into someone's house and was careful not to dirty the floors with mud.

He wasn't particularly bright, but Kurt would take all the company he could get. Besides, he was a farm boy from Kentucky and Kurt missed home, even if he'd never admit it.

The other reason was that the isolation was taking its toll on him. He was made to be around people, even if he couldn't stand them. There was too much silence.

Kurt and Dave didn't speak, not really. The important things were swept under the rug and there were only banalities left. But Dave didn't say anything when Kurt gets twitchier and twitchier and Kurt didn't say that he knows Dave goes out and shoots some poor bastard because Noah Puckerman told him to.

* * *

><p>Sam stopped coming around and when Kurt asked Dave the reason, the taller man looked down and didn't answer.<p>

Kurt didn't speak either. Someone had once told him he spoke like a poet.

Rhymes were no use for poor Sam Evans. Not anymore.

* * *

><p>Kurt and Dave still didn't speak about anything that mattered. One day, Kurt Hummel snapped.<p>

* * *

><p>It was still the best it had ever been, so of course it wouldn't last.<p>

One day, Dave came home to find Kurt in a robe, swaying on the table to the gramophone and griping a wine bottle. When he saw him, he let the bottle fall, rolling off the table with a clunk. Dave approached carefully and Kurt jumped in his arms once he was close enough and kissed like he wanted to kill him.

Later that evening, when they were both lying on the floor, their clothes strewn around them, Dave kissed the back of Kurt's neck. The salty sweat burned his chapped lips and he thought it tasted like goodbye.

The next day, Dave drove him to the train station. They shook hands and Dave let his fingers drift over Kurt's wrist, who gave him a tight smile and got on the train.

It was the first time Kurt was the one leaving. He didn't feel any sort of accomplishment as the train vibrated around him.


	3. Chapter 3

_We ruined ourselves. I have never honestly thought that we ruined each other._ – F. Scott Fitzgerald, in a letter to Zelda Fitzgerald.

* * *

><p>One day, people swarmed Wall Street like ants and furiously shook worthless papers in the air. Good things don't last, he repeated to himself as he walked pass them. It had been a marvelous party but the time to pay the bill and go home with their hangover had arrived.<p>

* * *

><p>1931, Ohio<p>

Rachel Berry had been famous, she told him as they dragged his suitcases up the stairs of his childhood home.

"I was a singer." She nodded desperately at her inattentive brother-in-law. "This one time, Valentino was in the audience. He told me I was the best singer he'd ever heard."

"How about that." He mumbled, opening the door to his room. Rachel Hudson looked uncomfortable and out of place, fingers twisting in her ugly floral dress. He took a deep breath before looking at her. "I wouldn't mind hearing you sing, someday." She smiled brightly at that and then walked down the hall, a spring in her step.

* * *

><p>Kurt and Burt Hummel had always had a curious relationship. When Kurt was young, Burt hadn't known how to deal with a son that stayed inside and dreamed of the city lights, all at once. Now, Kurt didn't know how to deal with a dying father.<p>

* * *

><p>They had almost lost the farm. That had been Kurt's reason to come back home for the first time in years. New York and Chicago had all the excitement of a wake. When he got home, he found a father that was dragging himself through the house, mumbling and limping.<p>

It took all his strength not to turn around and walk out of the door.

In the end, they managed to save the farm. He had splurged, it's true, but there had been a sizeable amount of money he'd kept hidden from anyone and never touched, just in case. He handed them a wad of bills without a second's hesitation and Finn's eyes widened like saucers.

* * *

><p>He walked past a quiet Finn Hudson and into the room. It smelled like sickness and sweat and he wanted to leave and never come back. But he did that once and it didn't work, so he sighed and sat on the creaky chair next to the bed.<p>

Burt Hummel looked weak and fragile, breathing with difficulty. Kurt took a deep breath.

"Do you realize what's happening, dad?" The only answer was the shallow breathing to his right. "You're dying. You're going to leave and never come back." His father's blue eyes were set on him.

"There's a lot of things I never told you about me. Things that you'd be ashamed of. And I never told you because I'm a coward, dad. Even if we'd never seen each other again, I couldn't bear to know that I'd disappointed you." He had stated to choke up and took a deep breath before continuing.

"I'm a _deviant_, dad." He spat the word out with disgust. He wasn't any more of a deviant as any other man. "I like men, dad. I like to talk to them, I like to kiss them and I like to sleep with him." _Telling him this when he can't speak anymore, where is your bravery_, a corner of his mind whispered to him.

"And I'm sorry for this, dad. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before and I'm sorry I'm telling you now." He let his head fall, tears blurring his vision. He didn't notice when Burt's fingers tried to reach his hand.

The funeral was on a Monday and by Tuesday, Kurt was gone.

* * *

><p>In March of 1936, Kurt Hummel received a telegram. He closed the door behind the messenger, took one look at it and let it fall from his irresponsive hand.<p>

CAN I SEE YOU STOP I'M DYING STOP

Kurt found Dave Karofsky in the veterans hospital in New Jersey.

"Are you a relative?" The doctor asked. Kurt could see through his fake concern. He didn't care. Dave was just one of many.

"He's my friend." _He's the love of my life_.

He looked painfully small and weak, lying on that hospital bed. He felt a burning in his eyes, as he looked at him, and his fingers touched the cold glass. He blinked rapidly before opening the door and drawing closer to the hospital bed. He wanted to cry when he noticed the book on the bedside table. It was one of his.

He didn't. Instead, he sat down and watched Dave's chest rise and fall as he slept.

* * *

><p>He took him home with him.<p>

"You make a good nurse." Dave commented as Kurt brought him his dinner.

"Don't get used to it." He said while lighting a cigarette. "Once you get better, I want to see you carry your weight."

"Kurt…" Dave said quietly.

"Once you get better." He cut him off and reached for the ashtray.

* * *

><p>The doctor said it was cancer.<p>

Dave lasted a year, which was quite impressive. In Kurt's opinion, it was terribly ironic that it was the happiest year of their lives.

"Why are you so calm? Shouldn't you be angry?" Kurt asked him one day, when they were lying in bed.

"I've been living on borrowed time since the war. Trust me, between dying in the trenches and dying here, I got the best deal." He reached around to kiss him and the subject is never brought up again.

It wasn't perfect. They got annoyed at each other, and snapped and said things they didn't mean but two hours later it was all forgotten. Sometimes, when Dave was feeling better, he'd get up, play Rudy Vallee's record and grab a laughing Kurt by the waist. It wasn't dancing as much as it was swaying in place.

_It's still the same old story_

_A fight for love and glory_

_A case of do or die_

_The world will always welcome lovers_

In those moments, Kurt held on to Dave's shoulders, feeling the cheap cotton under his fingers and didn't think.

_As time goes by_

* * *

><p>On February 2nd, 1937, Kurt woke up at 10 o'clock in the morning, and Dave Karofsky didn't wake up at all. He knew what happened when the chest doesn't rise and fall. Kurt let his hands trail up the body's arm and traced the contours of the face.<p>

He was so much thinner. It was odd that he never noticed. For him, Dave Karofsky was still the young man in the uniform he had met 19 years ago. The body lying next to him could be as old or as thin as it wanted, but it was not Dave Karofsky. That didn't stop him from holding on to him desperately.

5 hours later, he got up from the bed, washed his face, got dressed and called the morgue.

On February 4th, he carefully dressed Dave in his uniform, fixed his hair and nails and sat with the body.

"Do you remember Paris?" He gave a small smile. "Sometimes I wonder where all that went. Mercedes, Mike, everyone. I honestly never thought it would pass so quickly." He raised a hand to wipe at his eyes. "Remember those three days, I think it was in Montparnasse. We were all so drunk, but nobody slept, hopping from one party to the next. Sometimes I wonder why we were all so desperate to kill ourselves."

Kurt looked down before shaking his head with a smile.

"Whatever the reason, we loved didn't we? Madly and stupidly and painfully, but it was love. It has to count for something. If it doesn't, then what's the point?"

_Why are you talking to a corpse?_

He stood, looked around to ensure he was alone and bent down to kiss cold lips.

* * *

><p>In 1940, Kurt met a young man called Gavroche, who wanted to be a singer. He was too young for him and Kurt felt like a disgusting old man, but he never cared before. He reminded him of himself when he was younger and that inspired an almost twisted sense of protectiveness. It was narcissism at its best, but once again, he was too tired to care.<p>

Gavroche was not him, though. Of course he wasn't. The things that had molded him were nothing more than faint childhood memories for the younger man. Nevertheless, Gavroche provided company and a warm body at night. During that year, he revised his masterpiece, written over 20 years, in a haze of alcohol and ruin and music.

He knew it wouldn't be published unless someone edited out half of it, to be acceptable for the delicate sensibilities. He finished it anyway, leaving detailed instructions not to change a single comma and dedicated it to David. _Always David_.

Gavroche leaves him when he's halfway through the epilogue and he barely glances up from the page.

* * *

><p>Kurt Hummel lives long enough to see another generation of bright faced young men go off to war and <em>have they learned nothing<em>. He packs his things, gives the landlady the key to his apartment and then goes home to die.

It's seems wrong that Ohio has changed so little over the years, but at same time it makes sense in a strange way. His brother comes to pick him up at the train station. He grabs his suitcases and throws them in the back of his Plymouth pickup truck without saying a word.

"What are you doing here?" Finn asks him once they're seated inside, Kurt absently running a hand over the leather seats. Kurt tells him and Finn shakes his head and grips the wheel tightly in his hands. "Damn you, Kurt."

"I know." He gives a short cynical laugh and not another word is uttered during the ride.

* * *

><p>He can feel death drawing near. It's like a shadow hanging over him and he can't shake it off nor does he have the energy for it. Two weeks after he arrives, he closes himself in his room, staring at the wall in front of his bed.<p>

He remembers almost hanging out of the Model T, with a champagne bottle in his hands, as they drove down the streets of Paris. He remembers every mad thing he ever did, every single thing that kills him young and he finds he can't honestly regret a single one.

The week before his last is spent snapping at everyone who comes near to him. Finn's poor daughter has learned to come in as quickly as she can, drop the lunch tray on his bedside table and leave before he utters a word. Kurt knows he should feel bad but he's too tired to feel anything except anger.

He's furious, furious that Dave isn't here with him. What was his idea, being the first to die? He was the sensible one, or at least as sensible as he could be, whilst Kurt was the one tap dancing at the edge of the world. It isn't fair and in those moments where rage consumes him, he sobs loudly enough for his brother to hear and pretend he didn't.

Finn sends a telegram to his wife, and Brittany arrives with Santana. He wants to be angry at them, because they made it together, while Dave's lying six feet under and he's on his way there himself, but he finds that he can't.

Brittany looks beautiful, with her blond hair in a pompadour. She sits on the edge of his bed with a bright smile, like there's nothing wrong with that situation at all, and Kurt's deeply grateful. Santana doesn't make a single comment and he feels almost betrayed.

Finn and Santana leave the room and close the door silently behind them. Kurt and Brittany share a look and giggle like naughty children.

She swings her long legs and crawls under the covers before smiling at him and he burrows his head in the crock of her neck.

"Thank you." He whispers as Brittany hums _Ain't We Got Fun_ and runs her long fingers through his hair.

* * *

><p>Kurt Hummel dies an old man at the young age of 42.<p> 


End file.
